Yesterday we celebrated our first Christmas as a family in our very own house in France, three and a half years after we first saw and fell in love with it. After so long, I can hardly believe it’s true, but here we are and all the hard work, tears and tantrums, and the relentless bureaucracy has been worth it. 

On Christmas Eve, as the first rays of sun cast their golden rays over the hills, I tootled down the valley to the Sunday Esperaza market to the strains of Beethoven’s 7th symphony, playing on the radio. It was the kind of winter day in the Pyrenees when all seems well in the world. A day to feel truly alive. A day to buy a wicker basket and a set of copper pans for the kitchen.

On Christmas morning, a little over a week after arriving, we opened the shutters to a hard white frost blanketing the countryside, like something out of a fairy tale. I can’t begin to articulate the beauty of the silent countryside in its glistening white coat, the air thick with cold and redolent of winter under a clear blue sky.

There’s the small matter of a new wood burner that unexpectedly has to be fixed for a ghastly sum before we can use it, but in the meantime, we have electric heating and can fire up the stove top espresso for extra cheer and motivation when emerging from under the multiple layers of bedding first thing.

Since it’s our first Christmas on our own, in our own house, in France, I thought it was worth preparing something for dinner that I wouldn’t normally do at home in New Zealand. While at the Saturday market, I bought a beautiful chapon from the Landes region courtesy of a butcher in Quillan.

I may never buy rooster again but it was worth it for the entertainment value – the boys had never contemplated being presented at table with a whole bird – coxcomb and all. Priceless. The gas canister ran out as we were cooking it, which could have been a disaster (or a great way to meet the neighbours), but by some divine miracle, it cut out just as the bird was perfectly cooked, so only the carrots had to be popped in the microwave.

Grandparents kindly treated us to a buche de noel. From the variety on offer from our favourite boulangerie in Quillan, we selected the ‘petit Marcel’ – our preferred chocolate confection – and collected it on Christmas morning among the queue of Quillanais doing the same. Order number 53. Yum. It didn’t last long, despite Mr 4 turning his nose up… he’s not a big fan of cake.

After all that rich food (and the battle with the bird), a walk was in order and the new recreational St Bertrand lakes, just a short cycle from the house, are perfect. In winter the water is crystal clear, the views unsurpassed and the well-kept paths devoid of almost any other human. There’s a great playground – without doubt the best in Quillan.

Today, we headed out to visit acquaintances near Perpignan for lunch on their vineyard, Domaine Treloar – and to buy some of their excellent wine. We took the meandering back country road over the Col St Louis, a quiet route these days, neatly avoiding the Defile du Pierre-Lys.

It’s a gorgeous road in any weather, dotted with the occasional sleepy village, bordered by alpine-style meadows on the climb, then over the low pass through stunning rocky and forested terrain, to traverse an ancient stone viaduct and impressive switchback on down into the Fenouilledes.

As we drove, we reflected back on our first trip over this road in the summer of 2014 and later looked up our previous blog posts to remind ourselves of the experience.

The second paragraph of that original blog post on the Col St Louis prompted a chuckle:

The turn-off out of Quillan is just on the north side, through the hamlet of Laval (where, incidentally, there is a rather lovely stone village house for sale with a walled garden and a creek at the bottom of it – less said the better as it is out of our price range), and on through the Foret Communale de St Julia de Bec.

Little did we know that, though it would not be for a few more years yet, that house and garden would one day be ours!

Merry Christmas from our own little piece of French soil.